


in which crowley wishes aziraphale just for once in his life opened his eyes

by onetiredboy



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Oneshot, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Pining Crowley, aziraphale is oblivious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 13:21:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19063531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onetiredboy/pseuds/onetiredboy
Summary: a small oneshot i wrote of a lovesick demon at the end of the world





	in which crowley wishes aziraphale just for once in his life opened his eyes

Anthony Crowley waved a hand as he walked up the stairs. The door to his apartment slammed open. There was the distant sound of ceramic pots trembling as he walked in.

“Mmmm,” Crowley stretched himself backwards, revelling in the sharp cracking sound of his vertebrae travelling down his spine. “Oh, yes. Daddy’s home.”

He straightened up again and marched with purpose towards the furthest room of his apartment. He slowed this march only marginally as he walked along the line of his pot-plants, watching them carefully out of the corner of his eye. One of them down the end straightened its stem as he drew close.

Crowley stopped still and stared at the plant. A leaf began to tremble.

“You’re starting to lose your lustre a little, Damien Salem Chucky III,” he drawled.

The plant trembled at Crowley. Crowley stared evenly at the plant. Then he tightened his lips into a small, cold smile.

“I’ll be watching,” he said, and continued on.

The truth was that Crowley had other things on his mind than torturing his plants, but the key was not to let the plants know that themselves. To keep them in suspense, as it were. In that way, what he did to them was far crueller than killing them willy-nilly.

Another door swung open as Crowley got close, and then it slammed shut behind him. Crowley felt all the faux coolness pour out of his body like acid into a pile of condemned human souls, and he fell face forward onto his bed.

End of the world was in T-minus not very long, and Crowley had a feeling he wouldn’t be getting much sleep once Hell got their hands on him again. This was probably the last 8-hour afternoon nap he’d get. If he’d had tear ducts, that fact alone would’ve almost moved him to use them.

Crowley pulled his knees up to his chest and reached for a pillow, pulling it close. He closed his eyes. Yes, _this_ was perfection. Whatever force had thought up the idea of the afternoon nap, he hoped they got a commendation for it. He nuzzled his face further into the pillow and relaxed.

About three minutes later, he began to frown. He rolled over.

There was nothing wrong: the blinds were drawn, the apartment was silent, the temperature was perfectly cold. The only thing niggling him was a little feeling. Insignificant, really. Tiny. Perfectly ignorable. The only bit not ignorable about it was the voice attached. The voice in the back of his head. But it was small too, far too small to be saying anything Crowley could pay attention to. Definitely far too small to be saying anything important.

 _Oh boy,_ the voice said, _they’re going to find you._

Crowley rolled over again. No, he definitely couldn’t hear a thing. He had no thoughts rattling around in his brain at all. The only possible thing he could possibly be thinking about right now is how nice a nap would be.

 _Oh man,_ the voice said, _when you get to Hell, they’re going to pull you apart piece by piece by piece by piece._

Crowley put his hands over his ears. This, unsurprisingly, did nothing to help.

 _Hope 6000 lousy years on Earth was worth it,_ the voice continued unmercifully, _because what you have coming for you is going to last eternally more than that._

“Fuck!” Crowley shouted.

Outside, a pot plant shattered. Damien Salem Chucky III wasn’t so lucky after all. Crowley rolled onto his back and pulled out his phone. If anything could take his mind off of it, the internet could.

He played Snake.

His phone wasn’t old – no, in typical Crowley style it was latest model. (He went with Apple, of course. Not just because Steve Jobs was a great deal more corrupt than Koh Dong Jim of Samsung, but also because he’d taken one glance at the logo and his deeply ingrained love of irony had had a field day). But no matter how many times he tried to get into Clash of Clans or Tony Hawk’s Skate Jam, he always ended up crawling back to re-downloading an emulator of Snake. What could he say? Old habits die hard.

Concentrating on driving a little snake around his screen gave him far more control over his thoughts. He found them drifting, as they usually did, to Aziraphale. He’d been in a weird mood this afternoon. He hadn’t called him since he’d said goodbye. And the stupid being refused to adjust to the present times enough to use a goddamn cell phone, no matter how many iPhones, and then Samsung Galaxies, and then Google Pixels, and then, desperately, Huawei phones Crowley stole for him. He made them take them all back. It had driven Crowley to the point of using actual real money (that he materialised into his pocket) to legitimately buy one, and the last time he saw it it was still in its box on a shelf in Aziraphale’s library. He had this insane stubbornness when it came to this sort of thing. He had the same stubbornness with all the ‘I’m an angel, you’re a demon’ stuff. For Satan’s sake, it’d been 6000 years, and even Crowley had seen Aziraphale on bad days. One time he’d gotten so worked up he’d even kicked a bin over.

Crowley chuckled, remembering. He’d been laughing so hard his whole body ached with it, while Aziraphale scrambled on his knees and scooped up armfuls of trash and rotten food and dropped it all back into the bin. Aziraphale had gotten so upset over the state of himself after it all that even Crowley, barely standing by this point, hadn’t been able to stop himself from waving a hand and cleaning his clothes up for him.

No, Aziraphale was only an angel as much as Crowley was a demon. But still, he went on and on about the differences between them. The gaping divides driving them apart. The cavernous distance that kept them from being able to ever truly _really_ be friends.

Crowley’s smile began to fade. What was it Aziraphale had said in the car just today? He could still picture the slightly exasperated look on his face, the gentle disdain in his voice. ‘I can’t put it any better than that. Especially not to _you_.’.

The snake ran into the wall. Crowley hissed. He exited the app and clicked on Safari. He typed a simple word. Four letters. Followed by the word ‘definition’.

_love /lʌv/_

_(n). an intense feeling of deep affection_   
_(n). a great interest and pleasure in something_   
_(v). to feel deep affection or sexual love for (someone)_

_example: “his love for football”._

Crowley read the definition. Then he read it again. It wasn’t quite synonymous with what a demon would call love, though over time Crowley’s place here on Earth had brought him closer and closer to adopting the term. Crowley blinked. The words on the screen moved.

_love /lʌv/_

_(n). a feeling of missing somebody when they are gone_   
_(n). an irrational desire to throw everything away for someone_   
_(v). to feel like someone is worth saving the world for_

_example: “his love for the angel had caused him to choose eternal damnation over everything else”_

Crowley re-read the definition, his heart sinking a little more each time, throbbing with dull recognition. Something heavy settled in his chest, something that pushed up his throat into the backs of his eyes. But demons don’t cry. He blinked, and the words began to shift back.

Crowley put his phone down on the bed beside him and stared at the ceiling. “Stupid angel,” he muttered, “Stupid, stupid, stupid angel. Please call.”

 

 

 


End file.
